


It was just Red

by hideyourfires



Series: All that Blood was never once Beautiful [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, End Game, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Resurrection Ritual, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 11:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14448684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideyourfires/pseuds/hideyourfires
Summary: After the battle, Molly counts to seven....Molly is alive. Against all odds, he is alive. Bleeding, and quite profusely, but that’s nothing new. He lifts a hand to his neck to stem the flow. He can feel his pulse – it’s beating like the heart of a hummingbird. It feels like a miracle. He feels unstoppable. He feels like he might throw up.





	It was just Red

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of spiritual sequel to 'All that Blood was never once Beautiful', but it's not necessary reading to understand this fic. It's set at an imagined end of the campaign, after a lengthy battle to save the world from an impending apocalypse.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

One.

Molly is alive. Against all odds, he is alive. Bleeding, and quite profusely, but that’s nothing new. He lifts a hand to his neck to stem the flow. He can feel his pulse – it’s beating like the heart of a hummingbird. It feels like a miracle. He feels unstoppable. He feels like he might throw up.

Two.

Yasha is behind him. She is breathing heavily. For anybody else, it would be the equivalent of lying down, passed out, for all the blows she has sustained and the energy she has exerted. She wipes her damp brow, and lowers her sword.

Three.

Beau is on the ground, sat on her legs. She looks as though she has been dropped. As though she has collapsed from relief. She is grazed, on her elbows and knees and under her chin, but other than that – she is fine.

Four.

Fjord sheaths his sword. There is a freshly healed scar cutting across his handsome face. It travels diagonally from forehead to chin and runs down his body, his armour sliced open at one side.

Five.

Jester is limping, her hand clutching her side. She lets out a weak cheer. “We did it,” She says. Her pearly teeth are showing in an attempt at a grin, but it looks more like a grimace.

Six.

He hears Nott before he sees her. Her scratchy voice is unusually soft.

“Caleb?” He hears her saying. “You can get up now, Caleb. We’ve won.”

She’s leaning over a lump on the ground. Molly’s sight is a little fuzzy, and his brain isn’t processing information overly well. It looks like a few abandoned hessian sacks, or a pile of autumn leaves, or a heap of raggedy coats. There is a red wine stain pooling beneath it.

Nott’s voice comes again. “Caleb?”

Seven.

Caleb lies half on his side, his hair draped over his face. He needs it cutting, Molly thinks, dimly. There is a part of him that knows – that is aware of what might be happening. What _is_ happening. But it hasn’t touched him yet. He doesn’t want it to touch him.

“Jester?” Nott calls. “Caleb isn’t moving.”

They are all looking now. He can feel the weight of their gaze. Time is like treacle, slow-running and thick. He wants it to stop. He wants it to be speed up, for it to be over.

“Can you heal him?” Nott’s voice goes up in pitch as panic takes hold. She clutches Caleb’s arm, her knuckles pale, staring intently at Jester.

Jester’s mouth opens and closes, eyes blinking.

Fjord’s voice is calm. “Nott, why don’t you come over here.”

“ _No_!” Nott squawks. “You can fix him, right? Jester?”

Jester walks over, slow as the grave, before lowering herself down beside him. She reaches over, touches his shoulder. His head lolls to the side, his eyes staring emptily past her.

Jester whips around, eyes wide and teary, to look at them. “He’s dead,” She whispers.

It’s like a wave. Molly’s body turns to lead, as though the force weighing him down to the ground has increased by a thousand. He wants to scream and scream and scream, but it’s like he’s trapped inside his nightmares; no sound comes out.

“So bring him back.” Nott is saying, her voice sharp and grating. “You can do that, can’t you?” She stares at Jester, fists clenched and shaking.

“Nott,” Fjord says. There is a warning in his voice.

“No!” Tears begin to tumble down Nott’s cheeks. “Fix him!”

Caleb’s eyes seem to stare right at Molly, his usually intelligent blue irises just cold.

Molly falls to his knees. It should hurt, but he doesn’t feel it. It’s all just white noise. He’s not crying. He’s not anything. He’s nothing. He’s _empty empty empty empty empty_.

Dimly, he feels a strong hand squeezing his shoulder. Above him, Fjord speaks, calm and level. “We need to get him out of here.”

Molly doesn’t look up – he can’t break away from Caleb’s empty gaze. “I’ll carry him,” He says. His voice is quiet, but it seems to ring out in the silence.

There is a pause, and then Fjord speaks again. “Are you sure, Molly? You’re bleeding a lot.”

It’s Beau that he hears next. Her voice is low and husky. “Let him do it.”

Molly stands. It takes an age; his body is tired. He feels ancient.

He kneels beside Jester. She is crying, luxurious tears running down her face and dripping from her chin. He feels her eyes on him, looking to him for some kind of answer, to give him some kind of comfort. Molly squeezes her hand.

Molly reaches down, brushes the auburn hair out of Caleb’s face, runs a hand across the stubble at his jaw. His face is relaxed, no frown creasing his brow. It should be reassuring to see him so peaceful, but it doesn’t look like him. It’s a reminder that Caleb is absent, missing, gone. Molly misses it. He wishes it were back.

He doesn’t look away but angles his head, speaking to Beau. “Thank you.”

Molly lifts him. It’s not easy. Fjord is right; he is bleeding a lot. It also doesn’t help that Caleb is a little taller than him. The man is like a damned beanpole. He struggles, but persists. He won’t drop him. He won’t.

Nott stares up at him, her angry little hands balled into fists. “Be careful with him,” She hisses.

Molly nods. “I will.”

***

Nott gives up all her buttons. She reaches up and pours them out onto the stone dais, beside Caleb’s body. She has collected hundreds, bright and gold and colourful, and they spill out around his head and tumble to the ground. “These are for you, Caleb. I don’t need them, if I have you.”

Jester is next. She pulls a handful of snowdrops from her pocket. They are a little crushed, their stems slightly tangled together. She brushes them off gently.

“I have flowers, Caleb.” She says. She is smiling, but her face is damp with tears. “I’ve been saving them to make somebody look super extra pretty. But not for you. Even if you are dirty and stinky and gross.” She laughs, but it sounds like a sniffle. “You don’t have to change, Caleb. You just have to come back.” She lays the flowers down beside his breast. She begins to pull away, but hesitates, wiping her eyes. “I love you.” She sings the words, playfully, her face crumpled into a watery smile. She drops a kiss on his cheek, and steps away.

Beau wraps her arms around her shoulders, and Jester tearfully leans into her.

Molly steps forward.

“Caleb,” He says. He is so empty of words. There’s nothing left. No turn of phrase, no pretty speech. No flirting. He rubs his face, exhausted. “I’m empty without you. There’s nothing. It’s all bullshit. Please, come back. I love you.”

He taps the dais, twice, then steps back.

There is draft. It carries with it the smell of freshly cut grass, green apples, the sound of wind chimes. It swirls around Jester, teasing her fringe, lifting her skirts so they billow out before rushing past her, to Caleb, stronger, more forceful. There is a sound like air ripping through clothing, material blowing and snapping in the wind like sheets on a line – and then there is a cloak. It hovers, empty, above Caleb, the shape of a person impressed in the fabric. Suddenly, there is a burst of wind. It blows outward, blowing Molly’s hair and coat and setting his jewellery jangling about his horns. Then, all at once, it is gone.

Silence stretches out. Somebody is gripping his hand, squeezing it tight. The grip is bone breaking, and it keeps him tethered to his body.

“Caleb?” Nott says. “Are you alive?” She pauses. “Breathe for yes.”

A second passes. And another. And another.

Caleb’s lungs fill with air. He gasps, eyes fluttering open, his body alive with movement – his chest rises and falls, muscles tensing, his hands grasping at the dais.

Molly feels like he’s going to collapse. He sags with relief, clutching at the closest thing – which, unfortunately, happens to be Beau – in order to stay upright. She catches him, thankfully, holding him up. Molly presses his face into his hands.

“He’s alive!” Nott screams.

When Molly looks up, Caleb is moving, slowly propping himself up on his elbows. He rubs his eyes, squinting. “ _Was_ …? _Was ist_ …?”

“Caleb!” Jester throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing tight. A sound escapes his lips as though the air being squeezed out of his lungs.

“Ow.”

Jester releases him, sheepish but still beaming. “Oopsies.”

“Are you alright, Caleb?” Nott asks.

Caleb nods. “Ja. Yes. I’m alright.”

Jester leans close, on her elbows, grinning mischievously. “Did you hear me talking to you, Caleb?”

Caleb’s eyes slide past her to rest, briefly, on Molly. He swallows. “Yes.”

Jester pokes him in the ribs, voice teasing. “Did you hear Molly?” She is beaming, smug, head resting impishly in her hand.

Caleb looks at him now, into his eyes, his pale skin flushed but his jaw set. “Yes.”

Nott stares between them, her head whipping around. Molly can barely see her peering over the dais, but he can see her long ears twitching. “We’ll leave you two alone, shall we?”

Beau releases Molly – he hadn’t realised he had still been holding on to her – and he sees her smirking in the periphery of his vision. She punches him in the shoulder and takes her leave. Yasha follows, then Nott, who takes one last glance at Caleb before exiting the room. Fjord pauses at the door.

“ _Jester_.” His voice is grumpy, but there is a certain relief to his usual calm. He nods at Caleb. “It’s good to have you back.”

Jester pulls herself away, still beaming. “Goodbye, Caleb!” She sings. She walks out of the room backwards, keeping her eyes on them for as long as possible before Fjord ushers her out of the door.

The door clicks closed.

There is a second, a moment, that stretches out between them – and then Molly crosses the room and is kissing Caleb, and Caleb is kissing him back. He tangles his hands in his stupidly long hair, and Caleb’s fingers curl into his shirt.

Molly breaks away, breathless. “Don’t do that again.”

Caleb looks down at his hands, playing with the front of Molly’s shirt.

“You know,” He says, his voice low. “It was quite nice. It was – _sheisse_ , my brain is all over the place – _sanft_. Soft.” He avoids his gaze, lips pressing into a hard line. “It would be so easy to let go.”

He glances up at Molly, as though checking his response. Molly runs his hands through his hair, reassuring him. “Go on.”

“I heard Nott, and I thought – perhaps she is better off without me. She’s a grown woman now. I’ll miss her, but perhaps it is for the best. And Jester – Jester will be sad, ja, but not for too long. She will bounce back.”

Molly finds himself clutching at him, at his clothes. The warmth of his body feels miraculous beneath his desperate fingers. Remnants of the past few hours slither, cold, into his chest, at the thought of an alternative timeline where he is not so lucky.

Caleb looks up at him, taking his face in his hands. “And then you.” He is smiling, softly. “You are not empty, Mollymauk Tealeaf. I came back to prove you wrong.”

Something tickles the back of Molly’s throat, and his eyes feel hot and itchy. He smiles, and it feels crooked and wobbly on his face. “Not for love, then?”

Caleb laughs quietly. “That too.” Then, a second later, he says, “I love you.”

Molly’s chest floods with warmth. He leans down and kisses him again, this time softer but no less urgent.

When they lie in bed together that night, Caleb’s arm slung over his torso, any lasting trace of dread melts away. Caleb is alive, and warm, and _here_ , beside him. The world is safe, for now.

He is not empty. Not tonight.


End file.
